


Silk Stockings and Swearing

by TheCrazyGeek



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: High Heels, Masturbation, Other, Stockings, Women's Underwear, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker has a secret. Okay, he has lots of them, but this one is his and his alone. And it's just about to get found out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk Stockings and Swearing

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for my Wingfic co-author and editor - themasterplanner. I can't thank you enough but hopefully this offering from TTOI Smut Queen will suffice :)

 

Ollie Reeder had very reluctantly come to Malcolm's office for “ _a wee chat_ ” -- translated from Malcolmese to English, “ _ripping your fucking balls off_ ” -- and had spent the last hour defending the latest half-cocked ideas to come out of the DoSAC offices. Malcolm hadn't been happy, but at least he’d left all of Ollie's vital parts intact, and perhaps it was the resulting sense of cocky relief that had caused Ollie to look around the room on his way out.

Normally, you didn't look anywhere else in Malcolm's office apart from at him if you knew what was good for you, and he wasn't shy about physically dragging your head round should you start looking out of the window or checking out the childish paintings tacked to the wall. Ollie's eyes swept over the grand room, with its ornate ceilings and antique furniture.

_One day, this will be mine._

He suddenly spotted one thing that he was pretty sure wasn't part of the standard Number 10 interior decor. Picking up a stocking from the floor next to a bookcase with thumb and forefinger, he asked, “Who, whose are those?”

Malcolm snatched it from Ollie’s hand. “From all the fucking prossies the MPs round here keep bringing intae the building fer a quick nasty. I'm saving them up to make a gag big enough for the whole fucking lot after I wipe my arse on it.”

And on a normal day, that would have been that. Ollie would have slunk back to his office like a scolded puppy, and Malcolm would have tidied up a bit better. Neither man had counted on a political firestorm keeping them all working well into the night.

 

***

 

Malcolm was tired, the kind of tired where your body is trying to make you cry over just how fucking tired you are. He'd been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even take Sam out fer dinner -- strictly platonic, mind you, as he had suspicions she played for the home team anyway -- if he had the time. Get more than four hours sleep for once. Fucking luxury.

He was so exhausted that the finer details were starting to slip. A coffee stain on his tie which would normally have him changing the damn thing was left unattended; his jacket was creased and crumpled on the floor instead of hanging up neatly. The great political mind of Malcolm F Tucker was taking every last resource to keep on top of this nightmare and leaving nothing behind for anything else.

Like remembering to lock the fucking office door when he decided to change into some fresh clean clothes.

 

***

 

It had all started with a dare from that wicked personal assistant of his, the ever-smiling Sam Cassidy, who had put the idea in his head that it would be absolutely hilarious for him to go a-bollocking one day with stockings on under his suit. She'd certainly laughed herself silly when he did it; the knowledge that the fearsome Dark Lord of Whitehall was wearing some of _her_ clothes under his while he was tearing strips off politicians was apparently hysterical to his young PA.

Thing was, he’d actually fucking enjoyed it. The fabric felt nicer, they didn't ruck up like socks did, nor did they make your feet feel fucking clammy after a day stomping around on people's nuts. Malcolm liked comfort, insofar as he could manage while still looking terrifying, and what he wore under his suit would never be visible, so --

The next day, Malcolm went out at lunchtime and discreetly purchased several pairs of stockings, dropping them off at Sam's desk and telling her that he was sorry fer fucking wrecking hers yesterday, a statement that got another fit of laughter going between them for a few minutes before her phone rang and he stalked off to his office. Once there he slipped the other bag out from inside his coat and shoved it into his briefcase. Those were his.

 

***

 

Ollie hadn't been expecting to see Malcolm half undressed when he wandered into the office, his own eyes bloodshot and dry as hell, and for a minute wondered if this was some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep, and at any moment his old school teacher would come in and start riding Malcolm like a pony.

That didn't happen, of course. He wasn’t that lucky.

What he saw was the feared Scottish demon sitting on a chair with a shirt and tie on and a pair of trousers gripped in his hands as he started to pull them on.

And Malcolm was wearing stockings. Actual fucking seamed silk stockings.

Ollie gasped and blinked a few times, unsure if what he’d just seen was real and not merely a fiction supplied by a mind deprived of both sleep and caffeine. Malcolm saw him standing there and very quickly pulled his trousers on, doing them up with lightning-fast movements.

“Right, now that ye've got more wank fodder from seeing me undressed, what the _fuck_ do you want?” Malcolm spat out, his furious tone even more caustic than usual from being disturbed in his own lair.

“Those...those are _stockings_!” Ollie finally sputtered.

“Yes they fucking are, what of it?” The look on Malcolm's face said: _I dare you. I fucking dare you to say something._

Only a fool would take that dare, but…

“All those times you called me a queer, and all the while you've been wearing women's silk stockings! You fucking _hypocrite_!”

“For all those times you could 'only get through boring press meetings' with a butt plug rammed up ye tradesmen's entrance, that's fucking _rich_ , Tintin!”

How the fuck did Malcolm know _that_?! Ollie tried to refute this statement, to explain that was merely harsh unfair rumour, and Malcolm of all people should know better than to listen to office gossip, and got a hand like a raptor’s talons wrapped around his shirt collar for his efforts.

Malcolm's fist was twisting the fabric round ever tighter against Ollie's throat; rumpling the silk tie and creasing all the fabric. “Don't _ever_ fucking lie to me son, you're not fucking smart enough tae get away with it. If ye don't want yer shit-chute or what you stuff up it being the talk of the Press Office, then ye really shouldn't use your fucking phone when you're pished.” Ollie felt the back of his head hit the office wall as he was backed into it. Malcolm had twisted the fabric hard enough now that it felt like a fist against Ollie's throat; not enough to make him black out, thank God, but enough to make breathing difficult.

“I know fucking everything. _Everything_ ,” Malcolm snarled, and then his eyes dropped and he laughed, low and malicious. “Ye have a thing for being someone's fucking chew toy, eh?”

“Don't know what you are talking about Malcolm, I really don't this time, I--”

“You're standin' in my office with a fucking trouser tent that seems tae get bigger when I do shit like _this_.” With that, Malcolm used his other hand to dig into Ollie's arm, nails pressing painfully against his skin, and Ollie realised he was right. His cock was twitching now and fully erect, and cold-eyed Malcolm fucking knew it.

The hands released him and Ollie staggered sideways, out of the reach of those cruel fingers, but it seemed Malcolm wasn't done yet.

“You like being a fucking pet pooch, eh? Bet ye get taken up the mud speedway from powerful men who'll beat ye and call ye a filthy little slut!” Malcolm stepped closer, his eyes barely a foot away from Ollie's face. “You know I'd call you far, far worse...” His voice was barely a whisper now, and his hand slipped down Ollie's chest and cupped against his trousers with the lightest of touches.

“You'd like bein' ordered tae the floor now, wouldn't ye? Be on your knees in front of me with my cock in your fucking pansy mouth and ordering you to suck it down like a good little whore?”

Ollie whimpered. This wasn't fair – he'd just caught Malcolm with his trousers down, _literally_ , and now he was being made to feel like it was _his_ fault for looking.  A hurried non-verbal talk to the annoyingly persistent erection in his trousers didn't help; even reminding himself that it was Malcolm fucking Tucker with his hand dangerously close to his sensitive bits didn't make it go down.

“I asked ye a fucking question, lamppost-head!”

Sod dignity, it was too late in the day and Ollie just wanted the hell out of this office and away from the terrifying man with women's clothes on and his hand against his cock. “Y-yes, I guess I wouldn't mind, and I've done it before but--”

“Shut up Charlie Brown, I didn't ask for your fucking biography.” Malcolm removed his hand and stepped back from Ollie. “Right, get the fuck out. I've got fucking work to do and so the fuck have you unless you want that shithole department of yours flame-grilled in the papers tomorrow.”

Surely _that_ couldn't be it, Ollie thought; after all, he'd just seen what the Director of Communications wore under his suit, and it was prime blackmail material. “But, Malcolm, I think that--”

 

“Did I fucking stutter? GET OUT.”

 

***

  


As much as he tried -- usually, with the help of several alcoholic beverages after work -- Ollie couldn't stop imagining it: Malcolm Tucker's long, lean, pale legs encased in a pair of black silk stockings, trimmed with black lace and ribbon bows at the top, strapped to an equally lacy black garter belt that hung off his narrow hips.

Worse yet, he found it all to be extremely arousing, and was obliged to adjust his trousers every time the communications director came around and hope that nobody would notice.

Unfortunately, Malcolm noticed fucking everything.

 

***

 

A morning meeting summons landed in Ollie's inbox from the lovely Sam Cassidy and for a moment he considered deleting it and claiming he'd never received it. Malcolm didn't have the IT skills to prove him wrong.

However, Sam did, and if there was one thing everyone in the Party learned early on, it was whatever Sam knew – Malcolm knew.

So it was to the whistled strain of a funeral march -- _thanks so very fucking much, Glenn_ \-- that Ollie left the office and headed to Number 10 Downing Street.

After all, just how bad could it be?

 

..  


“Gets ye fucking hard doesn't it, Poxbridge? Wonderin' what else Malcolm Tucker has done in his long fucking years rising to the top? The sordid, kinky, filthy fucking sex I've had with men an' women to get another foot on the fucking ladder?” Ollie could only nod helplessly as Malcolm stared him down with that reptilian smile on his face. Yes actually, he had wondered, but now he was wondering how the fuck he was going to get out of this room alive and with dry trousers.

Malcolm wasn't done, though. “I've had fucking chinless tosspots like you up against walls begging ' _oh please Sir, can you fucking take me like the tart I am_ ' less than a month after I was letting them fuck me to gain another information source. I can take your every weakness and use it against you.”

Ollie finally managed to find his voice. “You know nothing about me, Malcolm! There isn't anything sordid in my past, and you can't make anything up because nobody will believe--”

“One word, Poxbridge: Fitzroy.”

Ollie staggered backwards. Oh god, _Fitzroy_. That night in his London flat with the white powder and the call girls and rent boys and --

“Yeah. I know. Real fucking talkative, your old school chum is, when he's got half the Bolivian cocaine harvest up his nostrils which, by the way, is most of the fucking time now. Did ye also know he was a drug dealer?”

It was pointless to ask Malcolm where he got his information, or how. Queries of that nature either made him go absolutely ballistic or ignore the question entirely. Ollie looked at his shoes as Malcolm carried on.

“I could even have _you_ , if I ever felt the need for a scrawny little git barely out of nappies.”

“You could, you know.” Ollie muttered, and clapped his hand over his mouth with a horrified gasp. Where the fuck had _that_ come from?

Malcolm gave another of his barking laughs. “I fucking _know_ I could have ye Reeder, knew it from the first time ye walked into this office.”

Tugging on his suit jacket to smooth the creases out, Ollie asked the fateful question.

“Why haven't you, then?”

Malcolm's response lingered in his mind long after he'd departed the office. “Because you're no fucking use to me at all. No valuable information, no insider sources, and absolutely no skills. You're as much use as a barbed wire dildo.”

 

***

 

Work was done for the week. Fucking _finally_.

Getting home before midnight was such a rare occurrence for Malcolm, that he often found himself just sitting on the sofa staring out into nothing while he tried to remember what he liked doing outside of work. It had been months of coming home and struggling through a shower before collapsing in bed, but now he actually had time.

An idea hit him and he smiled. Yes, that would be fun, and fuck knows he'd not had an opportunity in weeks. Locking the front door -- one could never be too careful -- he headed up to his bedroom and opened the heavy oak doors of his wardrobe. There were his work clothes, the matching rows of grey suits, the comfortable fleeces stacked above them, and tucked away at the back --

His gems. His secrets. The myriad pairs of stockings, suspender belts, a couple of wasp-waisted corsets, and several pairs of heeled shoes, all carefully wrapped in tissue paper and stored in boxes.

Walking in high heels was pure bloody murder, and he'd never ever do this outside his own house, but safely away from prying eyes, Malcolm was free to indulge once in a while. He selected a brand new pair of seamed stockings -- Dita Von Teese's range, not cheap -- and a pair of black strappy stiletto heels with tiny silver stitching around the suede. The suit was off in a matter of moments and today's undergarments flung into the washing basket before he went for a quick shower to wash the day's buildup of political slime off himself.

In the shower, the warm water running down over his silver hair and lithe form, he could think of little else but how fucking good it was going to feel to put those items on – maybe even team them with that black satin dressing gown an ex had once got him for Christmas. It wasn't quite an evening dress, but it would do, and it would go nicely with the shoes. His hands slipped down his long legs, slowly stroking upwards as though he was putting on a silk stocking. He knew this was going to make him hard, and on days when he was short on time he'd just have a quick furious wank in the shower and get dressed after.

But today, oh fucking luxury, he had the time to prolong this. Time enough to put on the clothes, stroke them, feel their expensive fabrics against his skin and admire the way the heels made his legs look even longer and more graceful.  He finished the shower and dried off, sitting on the end of the bed with his chosen clothing piled next to him.

A pair of exquisite black lace French knickers went on first. It felt positively decadent against his pale skin, the flat smooth gusset cupping his balls and feeling absolutely delicious against his hardening cock. The knickers were swiftly joined with a black garter belt trimmed with satin ribbon, and then he started to roll up the delicate fabric of the stockings – careful and slow, so as to not scratch them or poke holes in them with his fingernails. His hands worked slowly to prepare the silky garments and then pull them over his feet.

Pulling the stockings on and rolling them upwards toward his knees and thighs made him sigh and shudder in almost pure ecstasy. Toes pointed to show off his stocking-clad legs, he looked in the mirror and admired the sight of his lean legs encased in silk, his hands running up and down to enjoy the feeling. It was almost regretfully that he snapped them to the garter belt and took his hands away, but he wasn't finished preparing yet.

The heels were the next thing to be pulled on, although he did use them as another excuse to feel up his legs again, his long fingers tracing the seams of the stockings. Once the heels were on and the straps fastened, he stood in front of the full length mirror and did a few experimental twirls and struts.

Oh yes, these worked. The satin wrap over the top just finished the look off. Sleek, gorgeous, deadly, and sporting a large erection, Malcolm Tucker stood in front of his mirror and admired himself.

The rest of the evening would follow a routine. He'd spend another hour or so in these garments, walking around the house, sitting with his feet up; all the while checking his reflection in every surface. When you looked as fucking good as he did, a bit of vanity was understandable, even expected. By the end of that hour he'd be harder than a diamond in a fucking snowstorm and starting to pant with need. He'd then strip off the satin wrap so he was just wearing knickers, stockings, and shoes, and then he'd sit in front of the mirror and start massaging his cock through the lacy fabric. Teasing himself, seeing his face flushed with sensual pleasure and the motion of his own hand between his legs.

Spinning expertly on one heel he went downstairs to make some coffee.

 

\- Later -

 

He’d finally given into his desires after a long hour of tormenting and teasing himself with hurried glances in mirrors and brief strokes against his legs. He sat on the end of his bed with a sizeable erection poking through his satin wrap and his breathing already strained in anticipation. It had been far too long since he’d done this.

His hand ran down his chest and stroked over his knickers, the lace already tight as his cock pushed against it. The fabric stretched even tighter as his hand slipped inside his lacy underwear to grip at his cock. He felt it pulse in his hand, his breath hitching in his throat. God, this wasn't going to take long. Leaning back on his bed in a classic cheesecake pose, he watched heavy-lidded at his reflection, intent upon seeing as much as possible before he had to stop to come.

He pulled his knees up and spread them wide open, pulling down the knickers just enough for his cock to pop out and be smothered in his grip. He smeared the seeping pre-come around the shaft and started to stroke in earnest, thrusting his hips in time with the growing pulses of pleasure building inside.

With a muffled grunt, Malcolm came in great heavy waves over his fist, trickling over his hand and soaking the black lace with white fluid.  


***

 

Meanwhile, far away on the opposite side of London...

 

Ollie called off his planned date with Emma that evening and tried to ignore how bloody pleased she sounded about it. He slouched on the sofa in his tiny flat and tried once again to get that image of Malcolm out of his head, the one with him walking around in stockings. It didn't work, hadn't done for weeks, and the images were only getting more explicit. His hand moved automatically to the button fly on his trousers and stroked downwards softly. In Ollie's mind, the image of Malcolm Tucker in silk corset and stockings brandishing a whip and ordering a collar-wearing Ollie to bend over and _fucking take it_ ran on a loop.

He was just getting to the point where Malcolm would spank his arse before sliding his cock between Ollie's cheeks when he realised his trousers were completely undone and his hand was rubbing back and forth on the hard ridge of flesh inside his boxers as if it had a mind of its own.

 _I'm fucking wanking to Malcolm!_ It seemed odd, almost surreal, but not enough to stop. He was at home, alone, free to indulge in a bit of perfectly harmless submissive fantasy.

Malcolm in stockings, Malcolm with a whip, Malcolm in high heels -- the images flickered through Ollie's mind like a film reel and he blissfully surrendered to the thoughts. Ollie's hand pulled his boxers down and firmly grasped his cock.

Pre-come already flowing, his hand started to blur as it rocketed back and forth on his cock, as he probably made enough noise to be heard by Malcolm miles away.

When Ollie came a few minutes later, moaning through his teeth as his cock spat its load, it was to yet another image of Malcolm wearing women's clothing. _Malcolm Tucker in a tight corset with black satin stitching, brandishing a whip and ordering Ollie to stroke his cock and then suck on it. Malcolm Tucker in stockings and stiletto heels, showing Ollie just how fucking masculine he really was._

 

***

 

The next morning Ollie spent a long time in the shower. He wouldn't put it past Malcolm to be able to smell arousal on others. On the walk to the tube station, he passed an Ann Summers shop and contemplated buying a pair of silk stockings and just leaving them anonymously on the communications director's desk...  


But Malcolm would know it was him. Malcolm Tucker knew fucking _everything_.

  



End file.
